


Bottoms Up

by kakaitalover



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Conflation of Bottoming With Submission, Deficient Negotiation (And Other SSC Procedure) Due to Ignorance, First Time, Fuck-Or-Apocalypse Style Dubcon, Light BDSM, M/M, PTSD, Surprise Bottoming Kink, Surprise Submission Kink, references to past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:18:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakaitalover/pseuds/kakaitalover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't that John had anything against it, in particular. He'd just never tried it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Buildup

It wasn't that John had anything against it, in particular. He'd just never tried it. He'd never even thought about it very seriously – nothing beyond idle curiosity. He wasn't one to easily give up control like that anyway, and the prejudices that permeated his line of work to varying degrees even in this day and age made experimenting an ill-advised decision for a leader. So on the rare occasion that he'd taken a man to bed, he'd always been the one doing the fucking.

But now he was facing a plainly terrified Harry Dresden as he stuttered, “I can't – I can't – do that. I can't do that. No.”

“It has to be us, Mr Dresden. Your own research has backed this up. I don't see any other options, and we are running short of time. I realize forced sex is not –”

“No, you don't – you don't – no. You don't understand. It's not that. I mean, it's that too, it fucking sucks, but that's not – I can't do guys.”

“... Mr Dresden, are you telling me you'll let Chicago burn because you're having a bout of homophobia?”

“NO! That's not – it's not that I _won't_ do guys. It's not that I don't want to. I _can't_. The last time I tried … I thought that if it was my choice, that maybe … but … the other guy was hospitalized. I don't even know what happened. One second he was pushing in, the next he was a scorched heap embedded in the other side of the room, and the only thing I remember between those seconds is panic.”

John took a moment to breathe. And think. Clearly fucking Dresden was not going to work out, and if the implications behind his choppy, half-babbled words – implications he didn't seem to notice he'd revealed – made parts of John itch to call in his researchers and demand likely names and addresses, that had little to no bearing on the immediate situation.

“Breathe,” he commanded, taking in Dresden's graying complexion, rapidly knotting and un-knotting fingers, and panicky eyes.

It worked like a charm. Dresden straightened, a spark of angry defiance flickering to life in his eyes and pushing aside the fear, and growled, “I don't take orders from you, John.”

Suppressing simultaneous urges to smirk at his success and growl back over the informal use of his name, John briefly glanced at Hendricks to convey his researching demands. The massive redhead didn't so much as twitch, but John knew the message had been received and would be passed along while he and Dresden were occupied. Assuming they could get to that point.

“Is it sex with men that gives you trouble, or bottoming?” John asked eventually, idea forming with slow reluctance. He didn't need Hendricks' wary look to know this was a dangerous course to consider. Hendricks could be trusted to remain discreet, of course, but if Dresden blabbed to anyone it could seriously damage John's reputation, no matter the circumstances involved. And while Dresden was remarkably good at keeping secrets and even at deception, especially considering his complete inability to lie convincingly, he had no reason to do so for John. Even if he'd done it before, on a matter far more important.

“Isn't it the same – oh.” _Yes, 'oh'_ , thought John wryly, watching irritation melt into surprise and something almost like awe. “Oh. You – are you sure? I've never – not with a guy.”

“Between our different areas of experience I'm sure we'll manage. Mr Hendricks, see that we aren't disturbed.”

“Stuff's in the top left drawer, Boss.”

And they were alone.


	2. The Main Event

Both men shed their clothes and approached the bed, determinedly casual, bluffing their way through the awkwardness settling over them.

Harry sat at the head with a pillow across his lap. John sat at the foot, forcing himself not to cover his genitalia. Neither of them looked the other in the eye, although they snuck glances now and then.

“Right,” John announced eventually, “Not that this hasn't been delightfully middle-school, but we should probably ...”

“Get on with it,” Harry finished, nodding. “Not that there's any rush or anything. I mean, midnight's three hours away, there's plenty of time if you want to wait a while longer and just, you know, work up to it.”

“I'd rather get this done quickly, Mr Dresden.”

Dresden flinched. “Don't call me that, not while we're … you know. It's weird.”

“Harry, then. The point stands.”

“Right. Yeah. Right, then. Um.”

Harry visibly shook his nervousness off, setting the pillow aside – John bit back a curse as he saw the size of the man; didn't it just figure that the first time he spread his legs it was going to be for a perfectly proportioned _giant_ – and moving to stand at the foot of the bed. He gently nudged John's knees apart – John fought the urge to clamp them together; he wasn't some blushing maiden, and shying away wouldn't help anyway – and carefully pushed him down onto his back.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

And he slipped his fingers between his lips.

“Oh no you don't!”

Dresden's look of bafflement, hand still hanging halfway out of his mouth, would have been hilarious under any other circumstances.

“I don't know what adolescent fantasies you're working off of, but if you think you're going in there with nothing to ease the way but spit, you've another think coming, Mister Dresden. Lube – _real_ lube – is in the drawer, along with gloves and condoms. Use them.”

Dresden boggled as John reflected on the wisdom of allowing first access to someone whose only experience with homosexual intercourse had been violent enough to scar him for life, then glared. He freed his hand and snarled, “First of all, it's Harry, remember? Secondly, I heard Cujo, no shit there's lube and stuff. I was going to start with a blowjob, you dick. I'm good at those.”

He wrapped wet fingers around John's cock and started tugging. “You are massively irritating, you know that? Can't just lie back and trust someone to take care of you, no, you have to be in control every step of the way. Jerk.”

Annoyance was a warm, familiar blanket over the cold wash of nervousness John had been fighting, and he gratefully snapped back, “Pardon my utterly irrational assumptions, _Mister Dresden,_ I don't know why I thought a man who goes white at the thought of being penetrated might be unaware that lubricant eases the process.”

“Shut up, _scumbag,”_ Harry retorted, then leaned forward and took John into his mouth.

He _was_ good at this, John thought distractedly through slurps and gulps, watching his dick slide in and out between wide, slightly chapped lips. His fingers crept unconsciously into unkempt hair, tugging at it until large hands trapped his wrists and pulled them away.

“Stop,” he ground out. “Stop now, I'm going to – ”

Dresden pulled away with an obscene _pop._ “Is that a problem? I kind of thought that was the whole purpose.”

“This is a good point for you to start preparing me. Penetration is a good deal less painful if you're already aroused when it begins.”

Dresden's eyebrows bounced up toward his hairline. “Really?” he asked interestedly. “Huh.”

John decided he _really_ wanted that list of names.

“Okay, get up on your knees in front of the pillows. How attached are you to using these condoms?”

“You have to ask?”

“It's just that there's not much point in using one unless you're afraid you'll get pregnant. The last time I had sex was a few years ago, and anything I might have picked up then would have been dead within a week, two weeks tops. Wizard immunity.”

“... You're still wearing a condom.”

“Okay, okay, stars. Relax, will you?”

Lubricant warm and slick in his hand, Dresden pried apart John's buttocks and eased first one broad finger and then another into the waiting hole.

It was … odd. Uncomfortable, less for the pain than the vulnerable sensation of being spread open and invaded. But strangely compelling for much the same reason. And although his muscles burned from the unprecedented stretch they were enduring, he felt frustratingly empty at the same time, for all that he couldn't imagine being forced any wider than he was now.

“You can work a little faster than this, Dresden, I'm not made of glass.”

“Seriously, John, call me Harry.”

“Seriously, _Harry,_ don't call me John.”

“Fine, _Kitten,”_ Harry said with a playful swat to John's rear, adding another finger before John could react.

This time he found John's prostate.

“John? John! What happened, what's wrong? Shit, did I hurt you? John!”

Harry's frantic voice ringing in his ears, John tried to speak, tried to reassure the wizard, but all that came out was, “Fisgudditagah.”*

“Shit, shit, hang on, let me get out of you, I'll go get Hendricks.”

“Nnnuh!” John tried again, “Fizz g'd. G'n.”*

“What?”

“S' _good._ Prostate. 'Gain. Pl'z.”

“Prah-what-now?”

Later John would examine that question and pity the wizard a little for what it implied, but right now he desperately wanted a wall to bang his head against. What did vocabulary matter? He had an organ that needed prodding! _“Nnnn!”_ he exclaimed, wiggling his ass impatiently in the hopes that Dresden-Harry-whatever would get the hint. “Harry! _Bump! Prostate! Sweet spot!_ Now! 'Gain!”

“Oh. _Oh._ Cool! Like this?”

John writhed, feeling vaguely like he'd stuck his tongue in an unusually friendly wall socket. The added stimulation tipped the balance of the sliding, in-and-out sensation firmly into pleasant territory. Gratuitously pleasant, even – soon John was pushing back onto the fingers exploring his cavity, craving more.

Finally Harry pulled out and lined himself up with John's entrance. He could feel the head nudging against his fluttering ring of muscle, warm and blunt, and he wanted it _inside._ Now.

Slowly, slowly, it – pushed – in. It was much bigger than Harry's fingers, massive though they were, and pain exploded as it breached the sphincter. Christ, it was splitting him in two and it still wasn't finished! More... more... John sobbed into the pillow as it finally slid home, relieved that it would stop now while he adjusted. Except it didn't. It pushed further and further in, and he scrambled to relax, trying not to fight the invasion.

“Harry, Harry stop, you have to wait – wait – I'm not ready, wait!”

“It's okay John, I know this is the hard part but you're doing great. Just hang in there, it'll get better in a second, I promise. Relax, you're making it harder by fighting it. Think of something else, like - like a tricky bit of office work, or flying a kite. Anything.”

John bit his pillow and thought about what he was going to do to idiot wizards who didn't understand the meaning of the words “stop” and “wait.” Then he thought about what he'd like to do to people who taught idiot wizards that words like “stop” and “wait” didn't matter. It kept him occupied until Dresden was buried in him to the hilt, shaking like a leaf and finally, finally still.

“Harry?”

“Ye-yeah?”

“In the future, when I tell you to stop doing something to me,” John explained, body finally loosening around the length impaling it, “it means you should _stop what you're doing._ Are we clear?”

“Um. Okay?”

“Alright then. Proceed.”

“ _'Proceed'?_ Seriously? You – ” Harry cut himself off with a huffed laugh.

“Bossy,” he murmured, pulling out slowly and pushing in again.

“Mmmmn.” That was much better. John widened his stance and tilted his hips a bit, and the head that had given him so much trouble earlier brushed across his sweet spot. John promptly forgave it.

“Yghhs,”* he announced. “Fessaher.”*

Harry continued at the same tortuous pace, sluggishly dragging the entire length of his shaft directly along the live wire nestled in John's rectum.

Desire built and pooled in John's blood, and he tried again to encourage Harry to move, _move,_ with identical results. His failure sent him spiraling to new heights of ecstasy and despair, whimpering with need and frustration. In and out and in and out andinandout, he burned and he trembled and he couldn't do _anything_ to affect the process. One more molasses-slow thrust had him almost there, so close, so close to the edge he could taste the stars. John went wild trying to get the speed he needed. He pushed back rhythmically, he scrabbled with his hands and feet for the leverage to shove against Harry's stabilizing – confining – grip on his hips, he shook with need, trying to plead through lips gone numb with urgency. Harry actually _slowed down,_ the bastard, without ever faltering in his drive across John's prostate, and John shook harder, making small noises of distress.

“John? Talk to me, John. Are you okay? You're shaking pretty badly; maybe we should stop for a minute.”

“Nnn-nn- _nnn_ ,” John argued, trying to rock back onto Harry's unhelpfully motionless dick.

Harry, typically, ignored John's articulate rebuttal and began easing out. “This is not going to work if you're freaking out so badly you can't stop shaking long enough to _speak,_ John.”

The sudden emptiness where he'd been so full was too much to bear. Panicking, half-mad, he shifted his weight to one hand and reached back with the other to grab Harry's hips and _slam_ them forward until he was balls-deep in John, his only warning a hoarse cry of _“Mmmore!”_

John had a brief moment while Harry recovered to savor the shivery, stretching, skin-prickling sensations that resulted, gasping at the burn and the indescribable stuffed feeling. He was so full it was uncomfortable, and the perfection of it was nearly painful. Then before John could blink he was pushed forward onto his face, legs spread wide and useless, both hands firmly pinned to the mattress, Harry's cock still fully engulfed in him, and this,  _this_ was perfect. “No,” a deep, harsh voice growled in his ear, and John came undone, world vanishing into endless white fire.

***

He came to with Harry rocking into him; small, involuntary thrusts accompanied by a repetitive litany of Harry's unique brand of swearing.

“D'es'n? 'Ry?”

“ –ll's fucking bellstones you rat-bastard, you – John? Was that you?”

“Mmmm.” Sleepy and sex-stupid, eager to please as he always was after a truly earth-shattering orgasm, he shifted and offered up a genuine smile. In the shocked silence that followed he nudged over closer to the hand – apparently forgotten – still pinning one of his wrists and nuzzled it. Harry let go with a start and John whined in protest. When it returned, hesitantly, he kissed it gratefully, mouthing at the thumb until it lifted and he could wrap his lips around it and suckle.

Harry sucked in a breath, choked and ragged, then growled, “I swear you do this on purpose, do something completely inconsiderate and get me good and mad, then turn around and be decent, or even sweet. It's twisted. You're twisted, John.”

John hummed happily, laving the digit in his mouth with his tongue. The stretch and slide in his ass was exquisite. He might be hitting middle age, but his body seemed to have decided he was ready for another round already – he could feel his cock stirring, taking an interest in proceedings once more. One of the more alert fragments of his mind wondered dazedly if this was a perk of sleeping with a wizard or just some random miracle of biology. Refractory period, what refractory period?

They rocked together in silence for a time, until Harry sighed, “You're so beautiful like this. What I wouldn't give to see you like this all the time.”

John's wrists were moved up over his head, held by one massive hand as the other pushed down on his back, pressing him firmly into the mattress before stroking upward to close over his neck. A soft “oh,” escaped him. He started to buck under Harry's ministrations, gasping for breath.

“Stars, John. What I'd do to make you mine.”

Electricity rolled through John's body in a wave, thorough and merciless. “Yessss,” he moaned shamelessly, writhing on his captor's cock, nearly pulling a muscle trying to tilt his hips to give the man a smoother slide, “please. Yours. Yes.”

Harry groaned and  _shoved_ , hammering away just millimeters from the spot that would tip John right over the edge. John sobbed, barely aware of the muffled, “Not fair, not fair, you don't mean that, don't make promises like that, John, it's dangerous,” pressed into his shoulder.

“Please,” he begged, unsure what he was asking for. Release? Captivity? “Please.”

Harry shook – and didn't _that_ trigger some interesting sensations, physical and otherwise – shook like a recovering junkie offered crank. “Don't. Don't. You don't understand what you're promising. You don't know what I could do with an offer like that. Don't promise me that when you don't mean it, John, please, it's not fair.”

John whimpered deep in his throat. He craved … but he wasn't in charge … but he needed, needed, _needed_. Naked, pinned, incapable of rational thought, let alone cogent argument, John dipped into the last weapon left to his arsenal. Biting his lip, he turned his head as far as he could manage and dredged up the most piteous puppy-dog eyes he could summon after three decades of disuse.

Apparently the dust brushed right off, because Harry froze in place to stare, lust and indignation and lust and horror and _lust_ warring on his face for supremacy. Finally he gave a full-body shiver, collapsing onto John and burying his face in John's neck.

“You manipulative bastard,” he accused, but his voice held traces of fond, if anxious, laughter and he pressed a kiss below John's ear before continuing.

“Fine. For this _one_ night, until the sun touches the sky, you're mine, Johnny Marcone. _Mine_ ,” he repeated, voice dark and fierce, before sinking his teeth into John's shoulder.

Shivering as much with anticipation as apprehension, John rode the pain down into blissful oblivion.

“You have no idea what you've let yourself in for, Kitten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Translations from Drool for the uninitiated:
> 
> “Feels good, do it again.”
> 
> “Feels good. Again.”
> 
> “Yes,”
> 
> “Faster.”


	3. The Fallout

Kitten woke up to a hand gently shaking his shoulder. He mewled plaintively, but spread his legs and levered his hips off the bed. Harry would take care of him, he knew, and all he had to do was make sure he pleased Harry in return. Sleep was a minor concern next to that.

“Not this time, Kitten, lie back down.” Harry's voice carried a smile the way sunshine carried warmth, and Kitten snuggled closer to the fully-clothed body seated on the mattress' edge.

“I just wanted to say... Thanks. Nobody's trusted me like that in – well, ever, maybe. It meant a lot to me, and I won't forget. I wish I were as strong as you, but... Well. Thank you.”

Kitten sleepily nuzzled the hand petting his hair and crooned something unintelligible even to himself in response. Harry chuckled and tucked the blankets a little more firmly around him, leaning down to steal a kiss.

“I have to go. Sunrise is in a couple of minutes; try and get some rest, alright? Cujo can hold off the world for a day or two while you recover. Okay?”

Mumbling an affirmative, Kitten watched Harry go through heavy-lidded eyes, yawning and turning back to his pillow when the door clicked shut. Harry and Hendricks' muffled voices lulled him back to sleep from the other room, surrounded by the warmth left in Harry's wake.

***

John woke up alone, feeling stiff, sore, and oddly bereft, but nevertheless buzzing with the afterglow of incredibly satisfying sex. He shifted under the covers, winced, and eased slowly into a sitting position. Last night had been whole orders of magnitude more intense than anything he'd ever experienced, and it left him shaken in the harsh light of morning. Most of the night was slightly blurred in his memory after Harry started calling him – had he actually answered to Kitten? He must have been deep in whatever mindframe had swamped him not to have objected to that, but he almost seemed to recall reveling in the name, in the bemused awe that suffused Dresden's face, his touch as he answered to it, met every challenge with an enthusiasm that was somewhat embarrassing in retrospect. The things he had done out of hunger for that expression – had _begged_ to be allowed to do – had begged to have done to _him_ – he swiped a hand over his face and let it linger for a moment, grateful that there was no one present to see the flush attempting to rise from his neck and paint his face red. What had possessed him to drop his reserve like that? Good God, just the things they'd done in the bathroom... He'd never be able to come – to _visit_ this safe-house again.

How had it even been possible? Getting a second or even third wind so quickly after climaxing wasn't outside the realm of possibility, though it happened less often now than when he was a teenager – but a fourth? A _fifth?_ Where the hell had that kind of stamina come from?

Something was beeping in the direction John vaguely recalled the kitchen being. Feeling like a cripple, he haltingly worked himself out of the bed and limped to see what was going off. What time was it? He didn't feel like death warmed over, or at least not in an exhausted way, so he'd almost certainly slept past the time he was ordinarily at the office, but with any luck he'd be able to get there before the lunch break. His blackberry, left in the room furthest from the bedroom with the rest of John's electronic devices, sounded one last time as he hobbled to the counter.

It was an alarm for an appointment with the overseer of his latest business' construction site, the one that had been infested by what he called “hokums.” A _three o'clock_ appointment.

John dialed Hendricks to find out what the hell was going on. He should have been rung when he missed his eleven-thirty with the mayor's secretary, not allowed to doze well into the afternoon. There was _work_ to be done.

“ _You aren't comin' in today, Johnny,”_ was the greeting he received. Hendricks only called him Johnny when he thought John was being exceptionally foolish, and intended to override him for his own good before things got out of hand.

“ _Tomorrow either,”_ his Second in Command went on implacably. _“Leave the office-work in the office; I've got standing orders out that you're going to relax if it kills you, so don't go trying to bully one of the newbies into picking up your paperwork again, either. There's menus in the drawer next to the sink if you want take-out, and dinners in the freezer if you don't. Tea and coffee's by the fridge. Stay inside, get some sleep, curl up in a bed with the bottle of painkillers Dresden left for you and something out of that pile of light reading you've been ignoring, and stop fussing about the business. It'll run just fine for the day or two it takes you to get back on your feet.”_

With that the man hung up, and John was left glaring at the sink, dial tone remorselessly mocking him.

***

He found the painkillers on top of the depleted dresser from last night, along with a glass of water pinning down a scribbled note. He read it, swallowed four pills dry, and punched a number into his phone.

“ _Dresden.”_

“You're aware, aren't you, that I already have your phone number, and your address? For God's sake, I've called you before.”

“ _Hi honey, it's good to hear from you too. My day? It's been fine, thanks for asking. I remember, thanks. I left it for the same reason I woke you up this morning.”_

“I don't – why? Why bother with it?”

“ _Because there's a difference between having something and being given it,”_ Dresden said impatiently, tactfully leaving off the 'obviously' hovering audibly at the end of the sentence. And people thought he was incapable of diplomacy. _“Look, I have to go, Thomas needs a ride and Michael's looking for a babysitter. I'll talk to you later, John.”_

“Don't – ” the line was dead.

A gift? What was the point of giving him something he already had?

***

“Permission,” Hendricks concluded over lunch the next day, having mulled it over since John dropped the thorny puzzle in his lap the night before.

John quirked an eyebrow promptingly, snagging another sandwich from the high table he was leaning against just a little too stiffly to fool his Second into thinking he was fully recovered. Damn.

“Lotta the magical world, they follow pretty old-world conventions of courtesy, right? Used to be you couldn't even talk to someone until you'd been formally introduced by a mutual acquaintance. So even if you had his number, courtesy would dictate that you couldn't call him without being rude. Couldn't show up at his place as anything but an intruder, or at best a supplicant desperate enough to ignore propriety. Puts you at a disadvantage. Now he's _given_ you his info, he's essentially given you permission to call him – or go call _on_ him – whenever you want. Like a standing invitation.”

John sat abruptly, and a little too hard. “Trust,” he said numbly, the words _standing invitation_ ringing in his ears. He knew how seriously magic-users regarded invitations. “He offered me trust.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, beginning to feel almost insulted. “In return for, what, sex? Ten years of sweat and offers and fighting against and alongside him and all I had to do was give him a tumble between the sheets? What the – ”

Hendricks' hand came out of nowhere and walloped him on the head. “You go near him with that attitude, you'll come back in smoking, barbecued cutlets, Johnny. _Think._ You said he thanked you that morning. Seemed to think it was a pretty big deal that you'd bent over for him. Considering how frightened he was earlier, it probably was, for him. And you let him be your first. Can't tell me a guy like Dresden isn't gonna get sappy over that.”

More than that, John realized, half-remembered talk of offers and promises swimming to mind, he'd offered _himself,_ without reservation. Three times over, in fact, if he was counting right. It was a sobering realization. If he'd been with one of the fae or any other supernatural being when he'd unthinkingly made that request he'd certainly have been bound in an instant, enslaved or worse for the rest of his life. And Dresden had been conscientious enough not to let him give up more than he could bear to lose, which put him firmly in the wizard's debt again, not that the man seemed to realize it.

After lunch he toyed with the scrap of paper, turning it this way and that as he thought about offers of trust for trust. Finally he reached for the phone. An open invitation, was it? John supposed that made it his move. He wondered how Harry would respond to an offer of coffee.

Depending on his reaction … well, the drawer of supplies hadn't been _entirely_ emptied.


End file.
